The Checkers
by Mainevent117
Summary: In the world of the dead, there are the humans and the monsters. But that's not only a distinction between the living and the dead, it's equally true of those still fully alive. For a few, their fight to stay human will shake them to their cores.
1. Prologue: We Are The Damned

_In the hearts of men beat a violent and bloody song that civilization cannot disguise. It is the song of death, and we are its player._

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**Prologue**

**We Are The Damned**

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The building was large, very large. Seventy-six stories known only as The Berth, and that's all anyone knows of them. Granite gray walls of reinforced concrete encased gold-tinted, shatter-proof glass far into the heavens. The building was originally the largest bank building in the state; originally. But that's where things got tricky. There was no more originally any more. Originally takes too long, brings back too many memories, and just isn't good for society.

Today, the Fifth Street Bank Building is only The Berth; and that's all it ever was. Thinking back on it, how you used to get coffee at the little place around the corner that was an old train car, or that fender bender you'd had with that reckless cabby, they didn't help anyone here. Everyone had a story, and none of them were good.

Red, for example, used to be a school janitor. His life wasn't exactly peachy before, but it was life. Now, he's my right hand man; my muscle if you will. Now, before you start asking why I'd have a "muscle", I'll clear that up. I'm not a crook. I'm a professional. No, I'm not one of those sycophantic supply runners who go storming into the darkness, shooting into the air and screaming Hail Mary's, but I do have a similar mission.

My mission is to check on stuff. I'm a checker. That's what I do. When the outpost in Cleveland went down, I was sent to check on it. When Fiddler's Green was overrun, I was sent to check on it. When New New York was being established, I was sent to oversee construction. When I'm out checking on stuff, I have to have backup.

Originally, it would have been my team. Twenty of the most hardcore, disciplined, death-dealing sons of bitches ever to be born unto this Earth; Navy SEALs. That's what I was; originally. But like I said, originally don't mean shit around here. Not anymore. Now, I'm a checker. I check on stuff. That's what I do; and I do it well. Now my team is four people, from a more diverse bunch of past lives than I would have ever thought possible, but they're the best I've found.

Red, he's six foot five and going on three hundred fifty pounds; and not an ounce of fat on his entire body. Hopefully, you see why I say he's my muscle-- not that I can't handle things on my own. That was my specialty, after all. Originally. Red's a janitor, but he's not dumb, on the contrary, he's a very bright man. Some people just run into hard times, and he ran into 'em real bad.

Lewis is sixteen going on thirty, and can do more with a computer than half of those Department of Defense doughboys ever could. But there aren't a lot of big networks running anymore, so he's stuck working gadget duty for us. He's a tough kid, that's for sure. He lost his parents in San Francisco during the first outbreak; they were good people. I'd know, his dad was my brother. The kid watched his parents die, come back, and die again; yet, somehow, he's still found a way to go on with life that I have to envy. Luckily, he doesn't blame me for doing what I did--but that's my story, and I don't tell stories any more.

Graham is our doc. Technically she's only a nurse, but what do I know about medicine? She wears the white hat and has the painkiller, and that's doctor-enough for me. None of us know how she got here, or even from where she came; she showed up one day at the main bridge asking for help, and that's what she got. If I had to guess, I'd say she's had it the worst, but none of us have had what I'd call good, so that doesn't mean much no how.

The rest are just as mixed and talented, but these three are mine. They're my family now, and they understand that. Blood, sex, and skin color don't mean anything anymore. It's humanity that counts. You have to be human for us to accept you, and a lot of the people here can't claim that anymore. But my team, they're all human, and that's what makes them special.

Doc Holiday once asked Wyatt Earp what he wanted, and Wyatt said to just live the normal life. Holiday shook his head and replied, "There is no normal life, just life. Ya live it." A truth more relevant now than ever. And that's what we do here, we live life. It's not the perfect one, the one we asked for, but even before it never was for most people. So when people ask me how come I seem so happy in a world so full of death, I just tell them that I'm just living. At least that's better than most around here.


	2. Chapter One: Six Rules

_ This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper. --T.S. Elliot_

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**Chapter 1**

**Six Rules**

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"I've only got six rules to follow when we're out there. Number one, nobody leaves nobody. Ever. Two, nobody gets greedy. We're checkers, not runners. There's no pleasing the boys upstairs, and we're not going to try to. Anyone, I repeat, anyone, who is caught taking anything I don't say grab, will be left to the stenches. With their knees shot in. Three, check everything. We don't have the luxury of getting sloppy. Check every corner to a building you enter, then check it again. Four, five, and six, never take off your suit. Never. I haven't lost anyone to crotch rot in six months, and I don't plan on doing it again anytime soon. My last warning, don't take off any part of your suit while we're on a run. Do I make myself clear? I don't care how bad your balls itch or if you have a pebble in your boot; the clothes stay on."

McLeod finished up his usual speech the same way he'd finished it the last twelve runs. It was like clockwork now, but it was for their own good. All of them knew it by heart, but it was their brains he needed to know it. Red was quietly polishing a knife alone in the center of the room. Metallic church chairs fitted with red cloth seats formed two separate rows on either side of a main aisle. The rows were six by eight chairs deep at a slight arrowhead angle pointing to the central dais. The floor was covered in an ocean blue carpet, and the walls were coated in a thick off-white color. On the platform was a podium and mike setup, and other than the two large, red, metal doors directly opposite the podium at the end of the aisle, the room was bare. Everyone else had left the room to prep for the night's mission; except Red. He never left. Wherever McLeod was, Red was; and McLeod wouldn't even think about asking why.

The massive black man was already geared up, his eyes now focused solely on his knife. He was as bald as they came, with a scalp smoother than a baby's ass; he had a wide, strong jaw and large, heavy green eyes. Red wasn't his name, not his real name; but it was as close as anyone would ever know. Besides, no one had any proof that it wasn't his legit name, nor would they ask. Red was Red.

And red, is the color of blood.

**Starry Night**

The town of Brookstone, Massachusetts was as quiet as they came. They were the ones that scared me. The ones you couldn't hear stenches in, but the smell was there. It was always there. That smell never goes away. It's the smell of death, but more than that. It's the mix of a million different things they've crawled through. A rancid concoction of mud, shit, gore, and sometimes, the cologne they'd put on for their last day on Earth.

"How long until we're up again?" I asked impatiently.

"Engine's overheated, we just need to find a jug of water or something to cool it down." Lewis replied coolly, his head covered from sight by a thick cloud of steam billowing up from under the hood.

"Ain't there none in the back?" Red questioned, quite obviously irritated at the situation.

"No Gargantua, you drank it all, remember?" Graham tossed the empty gallon jug into the street. The container made a hollow thumping sound against the pavement before grinding to a halt several feet away. "Man, I'd hate to see you as a fucking walker. Always hungry as hell; I bet you'd eat another stench just to get that hunger to go away." Graham retorted angrily.

"Enough! Lou and Graham, stay with Betty here while Red and I go find some food and water. We need gas?"

"No, shouldn't. I put six containers in the rear before we left. That was enough to get us to Bunkersville and back without stopping." The sixteen year old responded dryly, taking a heavy drag on his cigarette. Normally, I'd have ripped the damned thing from his mouth and smashed it under foot; probably asked if he knew those things would kill him. Kind of a silly question now.

The truck, Betty, was one of a kind. I'm a special guy, and I have special tastes. Most of the big cities, the major human outposts, at least, had their own big trucks. Chicago has Dead to Rights, Pittsburgh had Dead Reckoning, and New York has Coche de la Muerte...car of the dead. I'm not big on the whole dead theme, figure it's been played out more than enough; so Betty it was. Specially outfitted moving truck designed to suit our needs: bigger engine, bulletproof glass, built in chainsaws for those "close" encounters, and the standard machine guns. Nothing fancy, two M249's, but I figure it's not the size of the boat, it's the motion of your ocean. Betty was designed with one goal in mind; to be as fast as possible.

Our suits, however, were designed with quite another goal in mind. Protection. Sometimes Red and I joke about how rich we'd be if we'd opened up a zombie suit shop before the outbreak. Honestly, I never understood why it took people so long to figure out how to bite-proof themselves. Walkers can't bite through more than three layers of clothing, not enough to break the skin and expose you to the saliva. But the majority of bites aren't on the body, they're on the limbs. Hands, feet, ankles, the parts that get stuck out first. They just grab onto whatever they can find. Me, I spent a lot of hard work making sure that I never bit the dust by some stupid zed biting down on my wrist.

Four layers of interwoven Kevlar, combined with light-weight polyester and nylon make one hell of a bite-proof material. Besides, there's enough Kevlar now that it's not expensive; nobody shooting back at us anymore. After some careful measuring by my old tailor, every member of the Royal Rock security detail was given a one piece zip-up jumpsuit of the stuff; black as night. The suit was tight, but not the point of being form fitting- it looked a lot like a pilot's outfit, except that the gloves and feet were sewn together with the suit. The suit itself had a turtle neck, and everyone on my team wore modified riot helmets to make sure none of the creepy crawlies got near our skin. Elbow and knee pads, shin guards, thigh guards, groin guards, strap on body armor chest pieces with ammo pouches, bicep and forearm protectors, and shoulder pads completed the ensemble. All told, the suit weighs at least thirty pounds, is scratchy, and hot; but it does its job as well as can be expected. Personally, I don't see any reason why anyone with the chance to wear one of these suits wouldn't, but there's a lot I don't understand anymore.

"Hey boss, there's a gas station up ahead." Red pointed a gloved finger into the darkness. The silhouette of a hopefully-abandoned Circle K loomed in the distance, it's distinctive circular symbol jutting into the sky. The chirp of crickets was the only noise in the night, and the pallid glow of moonlight the sole source of illumination. In an odd way, I liked it out here. I could always see the stars, and every now and again I'd think that maybe Hell hadn't won the rights to Earth. Every now and again was not tonight.

It was a measly half mile jog to the station. We'd broken down in what appeared to have been a somewhat commercialized district. Strip malls stretched out for blocks on either side of the four lane highway we'd been taking, and every now and then a three story office building would break the monotony of suburbia. This place was quiet...real quiet. The crickets had stopped chirping. "Shit."

"What?" Red asked as he halted. His head rotating a hundred eighty degrees trying to spot whatever had spooked me.

"We got walkers."

"No boss...we don't."

"The crickets."

"I mean we got worse than that. We got runners." He pointed down the street a half mile or so.

"Take out the cologne."

Cologne was our term for the foulest smelling shit ever to be bottled. It was a sulfurous, methane- smelling mixture that made even me want to gag every time I smelled it. Specially designed to keep what goes bump in the night from bumping into you. Red and I spritzed ourselves quickly and ducked into the shadows. Luckily, they hadn't seen us-- not withstanding that half or so were probably missing eyes. What they had seen, however, were Betty's headlights. The horde of decay shambled, crawled, ran, and limped with whatever limbs they still had attached towards the gigantic truck.

"Let's go," I motioned for the gas station after the mass had passed.

"What about Lou and Graham?"

"They've got Betty, they're in better shape than we are. What'll be bad is when one of them sees us. We don't have chainsaws and machine guns to back us up."

"Yea."

I slipped from the shadows of the tree I'd been hiding under and quietly stalked up to the garage door. My fingers slid under the corrugated metal partition and I gave a gentle tug; nothing. It had been padlocked from the inside. Red was at the glass front door, and equally out of luck.

**Always the hard way...**

"Anything?"

"Don't see anything."

"Want me to blow it?"

"Do you have your silencer?"

"It's glass, it won't matter."

"The lock isn't."

"Good point."

I grabbed my radio as my partner screwed the cylinder onto the barrel.

"Graham, save the gun ammo for now. We're gonna need it on the way back."

"Roger. Lou on the left, on the left!" My earpiece went silent as she terminated the connection.

"One...two...-" _Pfft. Pfft._ There were sparks and the door rattled violently as the bullets forced their way through the lock. We both looked at the truck; none of them seemed to have noticed. I slid the door open and rolled into the convenient store. I pushed the sliding glass doors back together and took a knee as Red gathered the stuff.

"I've been meaning to tell you something Red."

"Yea boss?" The sound of crinkling wrappers was music to my ears. I could almost taste the chocalatey sweet goodness of a Hershey bar.

"We been working together for a long time now."

"Yea boss." I could hear him open the cooler doors for water.

"I don't think you know what your friendship's meant to me." A candy bar landed at my foot; a Snickers.

"They out of Hersheys?"

"No, I got a whole box right here."

"Why'd you throw me a snicker?"

"I didn't throw..."

A guttural groan stopped both of our thoughts midway. I whizzed around to see the gas station attendant, or what was left of him, gnashing his rotting teeth in hunger. He was dressed in a one-piece mechanic's suit, with a name tag that read 'Earl'. His pot belly bloated the olive green clothing, and his skin had taken on the waxy white and purple tint that they all had. A thick pole was jammed into his neck, and coagulated blood coated the entrance wound. He raised an oil-coated hand to grab me, but all of the fingers on his left hand were horribly mauled; ivory bone jutted in thin slivers through the skin, and the tip of his index finger only hung on a loose piece of skin to the body.

If I used my gun, every zed for three miles would hear. If Red shot him in the head, the bullet would pass through both of our skulls, and I'd never have to worry about becoming one of them again. Thick clots of chunky red goo splattered onto my face-plate, sliding slowly down before dripping onto the floor. The corpse collapsed stiffly into me, and I pushed it quickly to the floor. The silver blade and black hilt of a knife was lodge deeply into the back of it's skull. Red wrapped one hand around the base of the man's skull and jerked the weapon out with the other.

"Can we just go already?"

"My pleasure. I'll get the bottles."


	3. Chapter Two: The Dogs of War

_A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of the world; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds: And Cæsar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war; That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. -- Antony_

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"Hey boss, what's the truck doing?"

I gripped the water bottles tightly with one hand and turned to the windows. The darkness disappeared as bright white headlights cut into the black sea. On one side of the truck the door had been pulled ajar, and a black-clothed body kicked at the wave of groping fingertips and rancid nubs of arms. _Shit!_ "Use the saws!" I screamed to myself. The truck began rocking violently from side to side as the seething mass pushed on it from every direction, sending it perilously close to tipping over. Rose colored flashes punctuated the doorway struggle and the armored cabin was re-sealed.

"Saws ain't working. The fucking saws ain't working!" Red dropped the box of Hershey's bars he'd grabbed and pulled his weapon up. Instinct slapped the barrel down before he did something really stupid.

"I've got an idea, but they'll have to be in on it or else it's up to them."

"Graham, Lou, respond!" I radioed frantically. _Come on. Come on damnit!_

"This is- Gra- We're in a -- batteries gone--." The communications cut in and out as she responded.

"Listen Graham, I need you and Lou to take the M249's, and wait until they start moving away from the truck. Then mow the sons of bitches down."

"Rog-- how we going --away from the truck?"

"Leave that to us."

"Copy." The signal died.

"Red, now we can make some noise." His lips parted as he realized what was hopefully about to happen.

The doors burst open violently as his massive boot kicked the glass, sending several pieces shattering to the ground. Spider-legs of fire stretched in every direction from the barrel of my H&K 53 assault rifle as I loosed three rounds in semi-auto. _Whump. Whump. Whump. _Red preferred a more aggressive approach, opting for his M16A2's full auto. _Brrrpt. Brrrpt. Brrrpt. _Hair was tossed into the air as half of a skull was pulverized. Crimson covered the zed next to it, but it didn't seem to care about being covered in rotting gray matter.; all it cared about was fresh meat. One or two twitchers began jerkily dragging down the highway in our direction. We needed all of them.

"Hey you ugly sons of bitches. Look at me over here, fresh meat!" I waved my arms frantically as I ran into the center of the highway. A hundred bodies slowly turned from their beating to me. _That's right...come on. _A head resting limply on the shoulder of its body began the loud, keening moan as it shambled forward. Two rounds perforated through the eyes, dropping it in its bloody tracks. The truck's rocking stabilized as a large segment of the group began heading for me.

"Only the runners right now," I whispered to Red.

Two forms quickly outpaced the wave of flesh and began their awkward stumbling run in our direction. Six rounds hit one in the chest, having as much impact as a hard punch to the gut would. I inhaled deeply and took my time--bingo. One shot . The second runner's jaw fractured into two pieces from a shot, but it persisted; it's open mouth hung open in a hideous split, the tongue falling dryly to the pavement before being smashed underfoot. A second shot from Red grazed the scalp, blowing off a good portion of skin and hair, but missing the vital organ. Training kicked in, and my barrel moved quickly to the target. Deep breath. Squeeze the trigger. Muzzle flash and a kick in my shoulder. A body writhed wildly for a moment on the ground before one final spasm. I waited until the group between us and the truck was at least a hundred deep before radioing Graham.

"Loose the dogs."

A horrible, wet smacking reverberated through the streets as bullets tore through body after body before breaking up and stopping. Heads exploded like hideous pimples, plumes of blood misted through the air and pieces of bone landed with dull tinks against crimson asphalt. The minds of the infected were concerned only with the intense, all-consuming hunger. They surged on, falling ten and twenty at a time under the heavy machine gun fire; relentless in their quest to satiate their carnal desire. We slowly began working closer to the truck, dropping the runners and stragglers as they broke from the pack. In ten minutes, it was all over.

"Pop the engine and fill 'er with water. I'll cover you."

Red and I sprinted to the cabin, dodging between the stilled limbs of the fallen. He jumped onto the bumper and tore the tops of the water bottles off. The clear water came from the body in small pulsing surges, like the zombies did. I watched it as the swishing liquid so necessary for life disappeared into the darkness of the engine. Life in a microcosm. There was life out there in the world, but it had been lost somewhere in this darkness of death and lawlessness.

"Try her now." He yelled. The engine rattled for a moment before growling to life.

"Fuck yea, let's get out of here." We stormed to the open doors as Graham and Lou eagerly let us back in. No kid ever looked so precious or woman so beautiful as they did then. "Glad to be back." I whispered as I closed and locked the door.

"Don't make this a habit." She responded with a smile. "Okay kiddo, gimme directions. Let's get the hell where we're going."

Lou shook his head at the screen of his monitor. "GPS says we're in Millhaven, Connecticut."

"This is Massachussetts." I interjected without thinking.

"See the problem?"

"Why is it so off?"

"I think somebody's been fucking with it. Somebody's fucked with the batteries too. They're gone. That's why the saws didn't work."

"Want me to run to the gas station and pick some up?" Red chuckled, but Graham only frowned. At least someone found humor in the situation.

"Hey, anyone else see that?" Graham asked suddenly. We all stared blankly at the mass grave below us, but none could distinguish anything else in the distance. The air in the truck was suddenly cold, ice in my veins as I searched the trees and broken windows of shops.

"I don't see anything," Lou said.

"Me neither," Red added.

"Up there, in the sky. If you squint you can see it. It's like a column...of light."

The trace outline of a light beam was evident.

"There's no registered outpost until Boston. That's thirty miles."

"That's gotta be five, ten at the most." Graham said excitedly. "Survivors."

"There's no survivors 'til there's survivors." Red input what seemed almost proverbial words.

"I'm going to take a nap, wake me up when we're near whatever it is."

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**Roanoke**

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"We're here." An angel's voice woke me. Light poured in slowly as my eyes parted.

"Where's here?"

"A mile or so from the light."

Graham backed up as I swung my legs off the cot, the gentle vibrations of the truck wiggling the bed. The rear of the truck was it's heart. The rear door had been triple locked and reinforced from the inside, and was only used for quick resupply. A walkway had been cut into the back of the extended cab, providing direct access between the front and rear halves of the truck. In the back were the gun racks, spare truck parts, and battery bay. Normally, we carried twenty-four car batteries to power anything that needed it: small refrigerators, computers...saws. Unfortunately, all but three of our batteries had disappeared before we left. I'd have to speak with someone about that.

We moved into the front, watching intently as Red wove through the congested roads that led to the light. Cars were arranged two by two on alternating sides of the road; speed breaks. Betty scraped and scratched as she maneuvered slowly through the winding path.

"This is a neighborhood, surely nobody would have made an outpost here." Lou remarked quietly.

I glanced around. Ghosts of a former life stood as silent guardians to our past. Two story houses lined the silent street. In the yards were strewn clothes, bodies, and even an overturned tricycle. Doors swung slowly in the wind, left ajar in the rush and panic of that day. A bloody handprint had been scraped along the white wooden banister of a porch, and a slipper was in the grass several feet away.

"Would you look at this?"

I couldn't believe it. A small guardhouse where the road split was bordered on either side by heavy metal fences. Inside, a man was radioing someone. After a moment four heavily armed men appeared at the gate. Search lights on the stucco wall snapped on, blinding us before moving around the truck and into the surrounding neighborhood. I shivered as a metallic screech scraped like nails down a chalkboard; the large gates slowly opening. The guard smiled and waved us in. The sky was turning a bluish-orange as the sun began to rise.

"It's the dawn of a new day," I whispered into Graham's ear.

"You know the last dawn I remember," she replied as she gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek, "let's make it through the day before we celebrate."


	4. Chapter Three: Eat Up

_More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly. _

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The gate closed solemnly, as though in no great rush to close in this secluded island of humanity. Around us, the world was quite different. Same houses, same lawns, but the smell of death was gone. In the front yard of a two story pink house a child rode his tricycle, and a man in his robe and slippers read a dated newspaper. The last newspaper ever printed; I know, I read it too. Behind us, the heavily armed men strolled leisurely away, as though our presence had only been a mere formality. None here seemed altogether interested in who we were or where we came from, nor why we were here.

The road curved around. Several people were standing around a charcoal grill and talking as smoke lifted gently into the sky. _What I wouldn't do for a hamburger._ And then it hit me. That's the first real thought I'd had in six months. The only one not about death, or despair, or pain. I wanted a hamburger. My mouth formed itself into a grin as I stared at the people seemingly enjoying their lives.

"Stop the truck." I said to Red. His smooth head shone like an eight ball under the cabin lights as he turned confusedly to face me. I nodded again to validate my sincerity. Betty came to a slow, rolling stop as I opened the door and hopped onto the pavement. Graham crouched in the doorway behind me, her shoulder length brown hair flowing across her face as it was carried along in the wind. Beautifully slender hands brushed the strands aside as her emerald green eyes scanned everything around us. Her long, feminine hourglass figure accentuated the semi-tight suit that she'd unzipped halfway, revealing an olive green tank top. Her skin was a dark golden brown, as smooth as a model's, and accentuated her thin pink lips.

"What's going on?" She asked.

"I'm just going to check things out a bit." Technically, it was the truth.

The six people huddled around the grill, dressed in short sleeves or polo shirts and shorts, stopped talking and stared as I approached. I was covered in blood and wearing a heavy black combat suit. A man wearing a yellow and green striped shirt extended his unoccupied hand with a smile, "Welcome to the neighborhood. Would you like a beer?" He gestured to his libation with a quick glance to his left hand.

I nodded.

"That's the spirit!" Everyone laughed, including myself, as he reached into an ice chest and ripped a can from its plastic six pack holder. My greedy hands attacked the metal top, popping the beverage open and chugging it as quickly as possible. The sudden bitter bite was as refreshing as standing under a cool waterfall; a moment of normalcy. "Whoa, calm down sport. We've got a whole case full. No need to rush. Hey, d'you like a hamburger?"

_Am I dreaming? It has to be... _He lifted a juicy grilled patty from the grill. The fire hissed as the fats dripped into the flames, sending tendrils of heat reaching for the source. "I'd fucking love one."

"Why don't we go inside for a minute, and we can have a little talk while you eat."

"What about my friends?"

"Oh, they're more than welcomed. Plenty to go around."

* * *

The kitchen was as standard as I could have hoped for. It opened into the driveway through two full-sized glass doors. The room was octagonal and painted a rustic yellow-orange, with white-tile countertops covering three sides and a small island in the center. My host was about thirty or forty, balding, with a little pot belly. His shirt and shorts reminded me somewhat of a vacationing snowbird in Florida. He motioned for me to have a seat and pulled a disposable plate from its bag.

"You want whole wheat or white buns?"

"Uh...either. I haven't really had a choice for a long time."

"Yea, that's the problem with the big cities. So many people trying to fit into one space." He disappeared outside momentarily before returning with my hamburger and another cold beer, the water from the ice chest still dripping from the can. "So, what brings you to our humble village?"

"Trying to get to Bunkersville outpost."

"That's in Connecticut, and you're a long way from there. Wrong direction too."

"Yea, we noticed. We think somebody fucked with our navigation."

"Who in the world would do that?"

"A lot of people back there are just as bad as the zombies."

"Why were you trying to get to Bunkersville? Did Red Rock fall?"

"Nah, we're checkers."

"Oh. Hamburger good?"

"Excellent. Where'd you get fresh meat with no power?"

"Zombies."

I stared blankly, hoping he was joking.

"No shit. The heat kills whatever's in them. Perfectly safe."

_What the fuck kind of place is this?_

"So you're a checker, is it? What exactly does that mean?"

"We're sort of messengers. Errand boys if you will. After we get enough supplies or something, we take a little trip to the next town and deliver it. We're what keeps the little underground economy everybody's got going actually running. Somehow we ended up here."

"Not much here. Sleepy little town. Well, it was. It's kind of dead now. "

I took another bite of the hamburger. A little gamey, but not that bad otherwise. _Just don't tell the team._

"So, how'd you guys set this place up?" I asked.

"This was a gate community long before the infection started. When it came, we shut the doors and grabbed whatever guns we could. Luckily, most of the guys here like to hunt in their spare time, so they're pretty good with rifles. Only four houses out of the twenty in here had infected in them, and we got those cleaned up faster than expected. Nobody knew where to go, so we didn't. We figured all of the big cities would be packed with those things, or people fleeing those things, so it wouldn't have done us any good."

"Well, how do you get supplies, equipment? Surely you didn't have a year's worth of canned food just sitting around in case there was a zombie outbreak."

"On the other side of the back fence is a Wal-Mart. It's five feet between us and their back door, so we made a sort of fenced walkway on this side, and dropped it over there. Turns out there were some survivors, as well as several infected, in the store. After cleaning it up, barricading it as much as possible, and fortifying the walkway, we took down that section of the back wall. So...now that Wal-Mart's pretty much our own personal little pantry. They've got everything we need; food, water, clothes, toiletries, medicines."

"So what happens after that Wal-Mart runs out of supplies?"

"We've made a lot of our spare room into gardens, to grow our own crops. There's a Wal-Mart gas station there, so we make occasional fuel runs to it so we can power the generators. If we had to, we have a truck in their garage ready to run somewhere to get supplies. But for now we're doing just fine."

"You have generators?"

"Yea, we run the televisions and some other basic stuff off of them. Air conditioner, hot water pump, stuff like that. Makes life a whole lot easier. "

"Does anyone still broadcast? I haven't seen a t.v. in forever."

"Most of the stations are dead, but one's still going. Some local news in Kentucky or something managed to hold up, and they've been sort of giving updates on how everything's going."

"What are they saying?"

"Well, for the most part it's good news. People are starting to get control of the streets, slowly but surely. The military wasn't as badly effect as most people originally thought, so those that can are being recalled and given orders. They're starting west and clearing sector by sector, repopulating in their trails and leaving weapons behind. "

"They won't have enough ammo for the number of these things."

"That's why they're using tactical nukes on the cities that can't be saved."

"You mean cities without survivors?"

"Cities they think will be too much trouble, survivors or not. Lucky you, Red Rock's on the list. In a week it'll be gone. So if I were you I'd just sit here or head to Bunkersville until they come this way."

"That's crazy! They'll kill half of the surviving population that way!"

"The Chinese did it first, but with conventional bombs. Europeans followed suit. We didn't invent the hammer, we just made it better."

"My god."

"Eat up, you've got a lot ahead of you.

* * *

**A.N. No action here, but plenty to come. If you hadn't already figured that out.**  



	5. Chapter Four: CFive

"What do you want Lieutenant?"

"Final artillery coordinates for Cleveland have been set. Wind and atmospheric readings taken into account, and the men are suited up. Shelling to commence on your order sir."

"Would you do it, Lieutenant?"

"That's not my call sir."

"I'm making it your call. Would you do it?"

The neatly outfitted man in the Army dress uniform stood quietly. His cropped hair was cut very short, and beads of sweat rolled like a struggling ship at sea across the ridges of his forehead. A rainbow of decorations was pinned across his chest, with an Airborne Ranger patch proudly stitched to his arm. A silver parachute with wings was placed directly next to a purple heart and an expert marksman badge.

"Yes sir, I would."

"Commence firing."

Lieutenant Colonel Jenkins nodded, turned on heel, and strode quickly from the tent. General Alverson turned his black leather swivel chair to the wall and stared at one of the pictures of army buddies from his distant past. Most of them were dead long before the shit hit the fan, and those who weren't that lucky were most likely shambling around in the darkness. **_Whomp. Whomp. Whomp._** He jerked in the seat as the bark of artillery broke the twilight silence.

"Forgive me..."

Cleveland's zombie problem had been solved.

* * *

"Cleveland outpost reporting in. Southern fence is strong with the mother fuck-- what the hell is tha--"

"Cleveland outpost, repeat last. This is Red Rock to Cleveland outpost, I say again, repeat last."

Static.

"Cleveland outpost, repeat last. This is Red Rock to Cleveland outpost, I say again, repeat last."

The ghostly hiss of nothingness wailed in return.

"Shit, I lost Cleveland again." Radio operator Mark Bernstein slipped the headset off angrily and reclined at his station.

"Calm down Markie, you know they've got bad equipment."

"They just got it fixed."

"Apparently they didn't. Did they?"

The radio set crackled to life again, and Mark lazily slipped the receivers over his ears. "Red rock central, go ahead."

"This is McLeod, open the northern gate. Get me Tomlinson and Jacoby to briefing immediately, and have McGregor get the senate to their meeting room as quickly as possible."

"McLeod? Sounds like Bunkersvil-"

"Quiet! We don't have time for this. This is a Class Five emergency. "

Bernstein sat upright in his chair, and everyone else wired into the conversation turned to face him. The lackadaisical air disappeared immediately. Class Five emergencies were reserved for only the most serious security breaches; normally zombies on a massive scale. Reporting a false C-Five was punishable by death, and everyone knew that McLeod wasn't that big of a joker.

"Report the emergency McLeod."

"Just get me Tomlinson and Jacoby to my briefing room, and have McGregor move the senate to their meeting rooms immediately. I don't care if they're asleep or fucking their wives, get them."

"Roger that."

Bernstein cut the line and turned to his crew. "Leo, get Tomlinson and Jacoby to those rooms. Tony, you're on McGregor. Samantha, alert head of security and tell him we have a possible C-Five reported, and to get all men on station."

Keys clacked and fingers flew as everyone rushed to route and connect from one point to another.

* * *

The Senate was a fancy name for Red Rock's city council, which had effectively taken control of the situation after the outbreak erupted. Now, they were the six most powerful people for two hundred miles. Most were extremely unhappy with being woken at such a ghastly hour, it was nearly three thirty in the morning. Senator Diane Lorenson was dressed in a body-length robe and still had a set of extra-large curlers in her strawberry red hair. Senator Thomas's eyes were ringed with dark black circles, and a thick stubble covered his large jaw. He tapped his unlit cigarette on the table, visibly perturbed at the situation both in the city and with his smoke.

"What the hell are we here for?"

"I'm not sure sir. I was told to get all of you here on a priority one status, McLeod's orders." Chief of Security DeMarco replied stoically, standing at attention near the heavy double doors leading into the conference room.

"McLeod, that nitwit? Well if he's got us up so goddamned early, where the fuck is he? Senator Wilson half-dropped his shaker of whisky on the table for effect.

"I'm right here, _sir_." McLeod replied bitterly, as he burst through the doorway. Mr. DeMarco's hands shifted to his holster for a moment as his tired mind struggled to process everything quickly.

"Then let's cut the bullshit Mr. McLeod. What's going on?"

"We have a class five emergency."

All of the Senators, and especially Chief DeMarco, suddenly sat and stood upright. "Go on," Senator Lorenson said with a nod.

"This isn't an infiltration, our systems are fine."

"I trust you fully understand the implications of falsely reporting a class five emergency, which it appears you are doing."

"But we do have an immediate need to evacuate these people. All of them."

Quiet murmurs pulsed across lips as the implications were being realized. Such a massive exodus of people had never been achieved, or even attempted; for all intensive purposes, it wasn't even possible.

"But you said our systems are fine." DeMarco interjected.

"Yes, but the threat isn't zombie this time. It's living. The army is--"

"The army? What army? There is no more army." Thomas hissed.

"There is an army, at least one as we know it. A large enough contingent held out and regrouped on the West coast to make a difference, and now they're heading east; clearing and repopulating cities as they go."

"That's great!" Senator Marcetti piped in, his pudgy cheeks shaking as he spoke.

"Normally, I'd agree. Unfortunately, the army has taken a scorched earth policy when it comes to major cities and their outlying suburbs. Anything deemed to be too risky or costly will be tac-nuked."

Energetic whispers floated once more.

"That's what happened to Cleveland, and it's going to happen here." McLeod finished.

"How can you be sure? Where are you getting this information?" A senator asked in the confusion of tangled voices.

"I can't be one hundred percent positive, but my sources were accurate with Cleveland. I can only assume they'll be right here too."

"Who _are _ these sources? Insiders? Bunkersville? Who?"

"I never made it to Bunkersville."

"Then where'd you go?"

"My source was a man in a small community, an unmarked outpost, living in Connecticut."

"Connecticut? What were you doing in Connectcicut?"

"There was an intentional navigational error in our systems, and we were led off course."

"So you want us to take the word of a bunch of people we've never even met before in making an unprecedented decision on such a grand-scale as this? On hearsay?" Senator Marcetti said through wriggling jowls.

"With all due respect, Senator, that _is_ how you came to power. Is it not?"


End file.
